


head wounds

by recklessfishes



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Zombie AU, apocalypse au, it's cool trust me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 14:14:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16327535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recklessfishes/pseuds/recklessfishes
Summary: Frank and Gerard are next-door neighbors, and the apocalypse is right outside their doors.***It's not that he doesn't care about Gerard’s plight and all, but Frank’s only met the guy maybe twice before. After the conceivable end of the world, he doesn't really have time to make nice with the neighbors, even artsy, kind of cute ones. There are literally dead bodies piled outside his apartment, he can't just pop over with cookies. Or, more realistically, nearly expired dairy products.





	head wounds

**Author's Note:**

> this is pretty old, but i'm proud of it so i posted what i had so far. let me know if you want to see a second part that wraps up the story.

Day 29

In high school, Frank read an article about how sleeping more might be a sign of depression. It’s been years since that shitty psych class, but lately he keeps remembering the reading at odd intervals. Frank’s pretty sure he isn’t depressed now, at least no more so than usual, but the horrible stillness of his apartment is starting to grate on him and he knows it’s only a matter of time before he snaps. His guitar sits in the corner of the room, unused for fear of the noise attracting whatever’s outside his building. Frank’s never felt this fucking stranded before, lost in a sea of familiar objects and bleach white walls. It’s scarier than when he went off to college, and that was pretty fucking bad. The confines of consistency are slowly closing in on him, day after day, and all he wants is to get out.

It's been four weeks since the world went to shit, and Frank's slowly going stir-crazy. The local news channel stopped broadcasting six days ago, leaving him with a static TV and absolutely no news. Last he'd heard, the zombie pathogen was fucking up New York quite badly. Apparently the zombies find their way around strictly gridded streets easily. 

The zombie pathogen’s like the one snails get sometimes, the one that makes their antennae light up. It’s some creepy shit, honestly. Frank isn’t too excited about dying a parasite victim. Luckily, he was in the apartment when the outbreak hit Jersey.

Frank hasn't technically met any zombies yet, but he's heard vague growling noises from the street below his building. He knows it's only a matter of time before they get back into the building, and then he’s well and truly fucked. What kept them away last time was the elevator, but without any security people in the lobby they’ll get past that quite easily. Frank lives on the fifth floor, and the elevator always gets stuck on the third, so he’s at least marginally safe. When the zombies first invaded his apartment complex a few got to his floor, but Jim from across the hall managed to kill them all with- well, with something. Frank hadn’t stuck around to see the particulars of the mass-zombie-murder. All he knows is that Jim was tragically killed by one of the dying creatures. Which really sucks and all, but at least his floor is safe.

The wifi's still on, by some miracle, and Frank fucks around on Netflix for an hour or two. He avoids Facebook like the plague- his mother has stopped responding to his messages, and he's trying not to think about it. He’s trying not to think about a lot of things, the loss of modern conveniences being one of them. The wifi will probably die soon, once there isn't anyone to run it, so he's trying to get the most out of it. The electricity is already starting to cut out at odd intervals, soon to be gone completely. Frank’s making the most of it before his connection to the outside world completely disappears. 

As he idly looks at what’s left of Twitter- god, he fucking hates Twitter- slight scratching noises begin to emanate from the wall he shares with Gerard. Frank resolutely ignores them. That's been happening for about a day, the on and off scratching. It's fucking terrifying, not to mention grating on his nerves. Frank’s too scared to knock on the wall and see if Gerard's even alive, at this point. It could be a super strong zombie on the other side of the plaster, waiting for the slightest noise from him to pounce. 

It's not that he doesn't care about Gerard’s plight and all, but Frank’s only met the guy maybe twice before. After the conceivable end of the world, he doesn't really have time to make nice with the neighbors, even artsy, kind of cute ones. There are literally dead bodies piled outside his apartment, he can't just pop over with cookies. Or, more realistically, nearly expired dairy products.

His Twitter DMs hold several missives from his friend Ray, a guy who worked at the local record store before all hell broke loose. Ray’s stuck a few blocks away but is thankfully alive, and he and Frank have been trying to plan some sort of escape for the past two weeks. The main problem is acquiring a vehicle. Ray owns one, but he rides the bus to work and as a result it’s all the way on the other side of town. Ray’s new messages are about Mission Rescue Shitty Van:

tor0- So me & the others here could go downtown one day and get it. It would probably take about a week to actually get down there, though- zombies and shit means longer travel time. But once we have the van we can swing by and pick you up probably within a few days (depending on the body count in the streets, ect.)  
tor0- Apparently u live near mikeyway’s brother. We’ll pick him up too. Date tbd of course- still don’t have enough supplies to really leave just yet.

Ray’s a genius at this stuff for someone who works in the music industry. He must watch a lot of horror movies, Frank muses as he types out his reply.

frnklero- ok, sounds solid. let me know if i can help with anything (supplies maps ect)  
frnklero- oh and when you’re next available let’s figure out a rendezvous point. I can give you my phone number if that’ll help

As he finishes typing, the scratching comes again, this time slightly louder than before. Frank can almost hear layers of plaster being scraped away whatever’s on the other side. He grimaces and moves into his bedroom as quickly and quietly as he can. Nope, no zombie mutilations on his calendar for today. Or this week. Or the rest of the foreseeable future, if he can help it. Frank crawls under his giant green comforter and props the laptop up on his pillow, planning to watch a few episodes of Black Mirror before he falls asleep.

His eyes shoot open several hours later, the Netflix screen blinking its ‘are you there?’ screen at him. The laptop clock reads three fourteen am, and Frank blinks bleary eyes at it before getting up. It feels like there are little grains of sand stuck in his eyes, and he rubs at them quickly. 

"You'd think sleeping so much would make this shit go away," he mutters, eyes finally clearing up. His voice sounds weird; it’s been ages since he’s had anyone to talk to.

The zombie noises are mostly gone now, so he deems it safe to sneak into the kitchen and eat a meal. He doesn't eat on a regular schedule anymore- perks of the apocalypse, he guesses. Three am would probably be... dinner, maybe? He hasn't eaten since about four the previous afternoon, so close enough. Time’s lost pretty much all meaning to Frank, his offset sleep schedule the only thing reminding him that time is passing.

His fridge, through some strange miracle, is still half full. Frank's never hungry anymore, and what would have normally lasted him two weeks has stretched almost a month. Granted, he eats less because of the inevitable running-out-of-food thing, but still. Frank makes a salad and couples it with a yogurt close to its expiration date. Taking his mildly disappointing meal into his mildly depressing living room is about as fun as it sounds. Frank plops down onto the couch, staring at Gerard's wall as he crams almost-expired yogurt down his gullet. It's quiet over on Gerard’s side now, and Frank doesn’t know if that’s a good thing. 

His guitar sits in the corner. If an object could look bored, it certainly would, slumped over a pile of dirty T-shirts and looking uncomfortably abandoned. 

***  
Again, the sleeping thing. He’s not sure how he keeps falling asleep, given that he’s already spending so much of his time unconscious, but hell, there’s probably a science behind it. All Frank knows is that he’s suddenly lost more energy than he should have, and the sleeping isn’t making living in his apartment any better. It’s not depression; Frank and depression have been friends for a very long time, and this feels like a different breed of bad. 

***

Frank slowly becomes aware of the muted and rather astonishing sound of Black Flag being played somewhere. It’s several hours later, and his yogurt tin’s toppled to the ground. It’s definitely Black Flag being played, weirdly enough, though it’s muted through at least one set of walls. Besides the intermittent zombie noises, his apartment’s been very quiet, too quiet for Frank’s tastes. If this a harbinger of a zombie attack, he’ll be happy to get mauled to this sound. 

It’s probably not zombies, he realizes, because the sound seems to be coming from directly behind his head on Gerard’s side of the wall. Unless Gerard has turned into a Black Flag loving zombie, in which case, cool. Cautiously, he raps on the wall. No response. Frank’s not surprised, honestly- he tends to zone out when listening to music, and no doubt Gerard’s doing the same. He knocks again, louder, and is met by the music abruptly shutting off. Silence permeates the space between them.

Just as Frank’s sure his knock won’t get a response, a cautious voice breathes, “Hello? That you, Frank?”

“Yeah,” Frank says, suddenly extremely relieved. Something like euphoria begins to rise in his chest. “Yeah, man, it’s me. You doing okay over there?”

Gerard laughs his weird laugh. “Uh, I guess? As well as I can be, given the whole ‘evil parasitic zombies outside your window’ thing. I’ve been, like, painting and shit.”

Astonished, Frank takes a moment to just comprehend that sentence. Of all the mundane things to do. “Painting,” he finally replies, deadpan.

“Yep!” Gerard’s probably grinning pretty widely, given the tone of his voice, and Frank suddenly wishes he could see his face. Gerard’s got a cute grin. “I figured the landlord won’t be super pissed at me for breaking contract and all, given that we’re basically in the middle of an apocalypse. And besides, fuck rules. Anarchy against the constraints of dumb apartment contracts is totally something that should be supported.”

“You’re seriously thinking about anarchy now?” Frank asks unthinkingly, and Gerard immediately shuts up. “No, fuck, I didn’t mean that in a rude way! It’s endearing, dude, don’t worry about it. If I had any artistic talent at all, I’d paint on my walls too.”

“Okay, whatever you say,” Gerard says, sounding less than convinced. “The painting’s therapeutic, too. I’m not just doing it to fuck shit up. I needed something to focus on, y’know? Apocalypses aren’t as exciting in real life as they are on TV.”

Frank groans in agreement. “You got that right. Who knew a zombie uprising would be so fucking boring? It’s like if vampires suddenly showed up and decided to be bankers instead of bloodsuckers. Totally anti-climatic.”

“Like Twilight, but with bankers. That’s some boring shit right there,” Gerard agrees amiably, several of what Frank had assumed were zombie noises accompanying his voice. “It’d make for an interesting story, though. Like, would they bite all the humans who didn’t make their loan payments on time? What a weird fucking concept.” The scratching noises continue, varying in loudness. Frank knows they’re probably harmless, but that doesn’t stop him from freaking out a little.

“Dude, what is that noise?”

“Um.” The noises stop, and Frank hears Gerard laugh, confused. “My paintbrushes? What did you think it was?”

“Zombies,” Frank admits sheepishly, and Gerard snorts. 

“Some fuckin’ zombies. The quietest zombies alive.” Frank leans back and hits his head on the wall, feels its coolness against his scalp. He’s a little embarrassed for not realizing it was a paintbrush, but whatever, he’s never spent more than ten minutes in an art studio ever. He lets the pause in the conversation stretch out, and soon Gerard’s painting noises pick back up again.

Frank can see why he’d find painting calming. Once he correlates the soft scratching with art, the noises become almost soothing, their lack of rhythm filling his mind with images of what Gerard might be painting. Frank’s never been a strong believer in all that ASMR shit, but this whole paintbrush thing might just change his mind.

“What are you painting?” he asks, attempting some form of nonchalance. 

“Horror movie posters. This one’s got my brother in it.” Gerard keeps skritch-scratching away with his brush. “I’d show it to you, but there are bodies blocking my doorway, and probably yours too.” He sighs apologetically. “Sorry.”

Frank shrugs, then realizes Gerard can’t see him. Fucking walls. “That’s okay, I get it. Wouldn't want you getting covered in gore at my expense.” He combs his brain for a better topic to explore. “How’s your brother?” he asks, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. If there’s one socially unacceptable conversational topic during the apocalypse, it’s family.

Shockingly, though, Gerard doesn't mind. “Mikey’s okay, actually. He was at the record store he works at- well, used to work at- when all this shit went down and managed to get away with a few other guys. Right now he’s crashing with Ray Toro and some dude named... Pete, I think? Something along those lines.”

Frank remembers Mikey from the record store. The dude knew everybody, and had some seriously good taste in music. Frank had considered Mikey a sort-of friend. “That’s good, I’m glad he’s safe. I know Ray, he’s a nice guy. So’s Mikey.” Then full understanding of Gerard’s comment smacks him in the face.“Wait, you’re Mikey Way’s brother?” Frank’s had several conversations with Mikey about his older sibling, most of them involving the phrase ‘weird but endearing.’ From Mikey’s description, he’d imagined the older Way brother to be some kind of cave-dwelling art goblin with ratty, unwashed hair. He’s only seen Gerard a few times, sure, but he hadn’t gotten that impression.

“Yeah. Why are you so surprised? It’s not like Way’s a common last name or anything.” 

Frank concedes the point with a huff. Now that he thinks about it, there’s some family resemblance between the two. Mikey’s a beanpole, all angles and sharp points, while Gerard is decidedly softer and rounder, but they do look similar in a way. Once again, they lapse into a comfortable silence. Frank starts playing again, idly lapsing into a tune he’s played many times before. After a few moments, Gerard begins humming along absentmindedly. He’s got an amazing voice, Frank realizes, and suddenly he doesn’t want to stop playing. He’d listen to Gerard sing forever.

Sometime later, just as Frank’s fingers are starting to ache from playing the same few chords over and over, Gerard makes his excuses. 

“Sorry to break up this party or whatever, but I have to sleep. I’ve been up for a while, and my coffee supplies are running low, so I don’t want to be awake more than I have to.”

Frank hums in sympathy. “I get that. My coffee stores are pretty low, too. Don’t even get me started on my lack of cigarettes.” He’d run out three days ago, and was already experiencing slight withdrawal. He’d been meaning to quit anyway, but the newly constant craving for nicotine still annoys him.

“Ouch,” Gerard replies. “That sucks, Frank.” He yawns loudly. “Fuck, sorry. My sleep patterns are all fucked right now. Let’s talk again soon, though?” He phrases it like a question, though Frank’s pretty sure Gerard knows they’ll speak again.

“Sounds good, Gee. Now go the fuck to bed.”

Gerard laughs, exasperated, but leaves. Frank’s left listening to Gerard’s footsteps receding into the depths of his apartment. He tries to pretend listening to Gerard leave isn’t weird, but he knows in his heart that it probably is. Oh, well. The apocalypse makes people do strange things.

***  
Day 30

Frank’s out of sleeping pills. He thought he had more in the bathroom cabinet on the top left shelf, but it turns out he’s got nothing. He’s down to the last of his antidepressant meds, too, which doesn’t bode well for him. He never really took them on the regular, preferring instead to self-medicate with nicotine and booze, but lately he’s starting to take them again. Something about the crushing silence around him is fucking with his head.

He hasn’t heard Gerard on the other side of the wall today. He sat on the couch for four hours around what used to be seven pm, but Gerard never appeared. He isn’t sure why he feels so disappointed by this. Sure, Gerard’s a good companion and all, but Frank barely knows him. There’s no reason on earth to feel so attached already. 

“Yet another side effect of the apocalypse,” he mutters bitterly to himself. “Dependency.”

Ray still hasn’t replied to his messages on Twitter, so Frank well and truly has nothing to do. Netflix has lost its appeal, and playing guitar doesn’t feel as nice as it used to. After all, he isn’t practicing for a show. He isn’t even sure if concerts will even exist anymore, given the undead mess that currently occupies the majority of the United States.

If Frank makes it out of his apartment alive, he’s gonna create the best concert venue anyone this side of the apocalypse has ever seen. He’ll play a show every night. Maybe he’ll be able to convince Gerard to sing with him or something, get Mikey and Ray to join the band too. They could even take their post-apocalyptic band on tour, once the undead threat settled down a bit. Frank daydreams about knocking some zombie’s head off with his guitar for a while before deciding to go back to bed. He feels a bit nauseous, but ignores it. Hopefully the feeling will be gone by morning.

 

Day 31

He ejects the entire contents of his stomach into his bedroom trashcan and doesn’t feel any better afterwards. It’s four fifteen in the morning.

Frank rubs at the back of his head, tugging at the slightly too long strands in annoyance. He should’ve gotten that fucking haircut he’d been planning on before the world ended. Now, unfortunately, he’s either gonna have to resort to the scissors in the kitchen or just let it grow long and tangled again. Neither option really appeals to him. If Gerard were in the Frank’s apartment with him, he’d probably be able to give Frank a decent trim. Gerard seems like he’d be good at that sort of thing.

Deciding that sleep is no longer possible, Frank grabs the puke trashcan and heads for the kitchen. Once there, he shoves the window open, ignoring the blast of frigid air, and does his best to empty his sick onto the pavement below. He doesn’t want his safehaven for the foreseeable future smelling like shit. The fresh air feels good against his face, and Frank inhales deeply before remembering half the city smells like corpses. Not only does it smell like corpses, but there are several zombies congregating outside his window, watching the vomit splatter on the sidewalk. Slowly, one of the zombies edges forward. He’s balding and pudgy, a stereotypical middle-aged businessman complete with a ripped up business casual outfit. The zombie shuffles forward until he’s directly in the puddle, then opens his mouth and catches the last droplet in his mouth.

Frank jumps backwards in disgust, tossing the can as far away from him as possible. It flies out the window. Judging by the alarming noises that follow, it hits at least one of the zombie crowd below. Breathing heavily, Frank slams his window closed again. 

“God,” he mutters to himself. “Fucking disgusting.” His stomach twinges again, letting him know that the recent zombie incident hasn’t settled well with him. Frank walks as slowly as he can into the living room, feeling his stomach bubble at every step. As he flops back onto the couch and immediately curls up into the fetal position, Frank wonders whether he’ll ever make it out of his apartment alive. Fucking digestive problems will be the death of him if the zombies aren’t, that’s for damn sure. 

He raps a knuckle against the wall halfheartedly, trying to get his brain to shut up. “Gee? You there?” His voice sounds weaker than he remembers it being.

Again, nothing. Frank stares up at the white popcorn ceiling and continues anxiously contemplating the apocalypse. He can’t even decide if he’s really worried or if it’s all his stomach’s fault. 

The scratch of Gerard’s paintbrush slowly crawls into his ears. Frank sits up gingerly and taps on the wall. His stomach twinges angrily at the movement, and Frank struggles to keep another round of bile from coming up. He really wishes he hadn’t thrown the trash can out the window, now- he doesn’t want to be sick all over his apartment.

“Frank, hi! It's been a while, how are you?" Gerard sounds happy to hear from him, at least. Frank would be a bit happier about this if his immune system wasn’t breaking down, but it’s still nice. 

"I'm dying in a pit of agony. My piece of shit stomach decided to start a revolution against food." Apparently speaking isn't a good move, either- Frank doubles over in pain as soon as he's finished speaking. Goddamn, it hurts. 

Gerard's concerned voice floats over him as he takes several deep breaths, coaxing his body back down onto the couch. "Shit, man, do you need any help? I could probably get over there if I tried hard enough, it's not like dead bodies are actually that bad once you think about them. Or I could, like, break the wall? That's possible, right? These apartment walls can't be that thick, I know I've heard my neighbors going at it before, and I’ve probably got some Tylenol around-"

“Jesus, Gerard, you don’t need to be my mother.” Frank cuts Gerard’s ramble short with another tap on the wall. “Could you just, like, talk to me for a bit? That might help.” 

“Sure, okay,” Gerard replies, sounding a bit confused. “What about?”

“I dunno. Anything. What are you painting today?”

Gerard launches headfirst into an explanation about his newest horror movie mural. “This one’s got a horde of bloodthirsty vampires in it. You should see the blood detail on this shit, by the way, I worked really hard on it. They’re all in, like, suits, and they’re advancing on me. Well, me and some other guy. I haven’t decided who to draw there yet. I’ve already given Mikey a poster, and I don’t really feel like using anyone from art school. I’d make it you, but I don’t have any reference photos. It’s a shame we didn’t meet sooner, honestly. I’d have painted you in the background of the Mikey one, too.”

“Sucks,” Frank mumbles feverishly. “I can send you a photo if you want.”

“Really?” Gerard’s voice jumps up slightly in excitement. “That’d be great, Frank! Uh, do you want my number?”

Frank nods. The silence stretches out for a while before Gerard clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh, Frank?”

“Shit, sorry, forgot you couldn’t see me. Sure, lemme just grab my phone.” He digs through his hoodie pocket and pulls out his phone. He hasn’t charged it in a few days, judging by the red battery symbol at the top right of the screen. He’ll have to do that soon- who knows when the power will finally give out. “Okay, I’m ready. Hit me up, buddy.”

“What the fuck?” Gerard giggles, kind of, then rattles off his phone number. Frank types it into the ‘new message’ bar as quickly as he can, fingers stumbling over the keys. 

“Nice, got it. Hold on a sec.” He tilts the camera up and makes a stupid face, inwardly flinching at how bad he looks. His hair is still horribly long, and his stomach problems aren’t doing wonders for his complexion. Frank’s not normally one to care a ton about his appearance, but Gerard’s cute and artistic and nice to him. Frank doesn’t want his only companion fucking off and abandoning him because he looks bad. Regardless, he snaps the photo and sends it, along with a slightly better photo of him taken a few days before the zombies showed up. A few seconds later, Gerard laughs.

“You look good, man. This is awesome, thank you so much! I’ll add you into the mural and send you a photo when I’m done.”

As soon as Gerard finishes talking, Frank feels his phone buzz in his hand. 

Gerard: (3 photo attachments) here they are

Gerard: they being the murals :)

Frank smiles down at the screen. The murals are amazing- he can tell right off the bat that Gerard’s an excellent artist, someone who should’ve been well on his way to famous. He feels a tinge of sadness over the fact that Gerard won’t be able to break into the high art world anymore. Fucking apocalypses. 

The first painting is of a natural disaster- water fills half the frame, and swollen bodies clog the bottom left side of the scene. Standing hip-deep in the water is none other than Ray Toro, majestic fro and all. One hand is outstretched towards the sky, while the other trails beside him, fingertips sinking into the water. The sky is grey and faded, with dark clouds looming on the horizon. 

The second is Gerard’s aforementioned Mikey painting- Mikey’s kneeling in the dead center of the frame, arms raised and head bowed. His white dress shirt is caked with blood, and two guns lie by his knees. There’s something written on the wall behind him, but Frank can’t quite make it out.

The last image is of Gerard’s unfinished vampire painting. Sure enough, there are the suit-clad vampires, looking ravenous and scary. The blood splatter is truly fantastic, done in varying shades of red and brown. Gerard’s collapsed in the left corner of the frame, brandishing a battered brown crucifix towards the approaching vamps. His other hand, bloody and scratched, reaches out across the center of the frame towards another figure, who lies slumped in the dirt. It’s merely a silhouette, but Gerard’s written FRANK in rough pencil on the figure’s forehead. 

Frank can’t help but exclaim at Gerard’s talent.“These are amazing, Gerard. Holy fuck. You’re an amazing artist, seriously.”

“I try,” comes Gerard’s bashful response. “I mean, it’s what I went to school for, so I hope I’m okay at it.”

“You should be famous for this shit. It’s so fucking good. I may be slightly biased, as I love horror movies, but if the art world still existed now they’d snap these up in a heartbeat.”

“You love horror movies?” Gerard asks, his voice betraying his excitement. “Me too! They’re seriously my favorite thing. Well, my favorite thing besides comic books.”

Frank grins despite the pain in his stomach. “Yeah, I like them a lot. I was born on Halloween, actually, so I’ve always had a weird affinity for horror related things. There’s something appealing about all that blood, you know?”

“Exactly!” Gerard enthuses. “It’s such a fascinating genre, honestly.”

Frank’s about to reply when his stomach twists roughly, causing him to cry out in pain. “Shit, sorry,” he groans, mildly embarrassed. “I love talking with you, honest, I’m just kind of decomposing from the inside out over here.”

“That’s an interesting concept,” Gerard says thoughtfully. He’s probably actually thinking about the logistics of it, the weirdo. “Like, what if that’s the second wave of the zombie fungus? It just bursts out of your stomach, like in Alien, and then infects the area around it-” He breaks off suddenly, as if realizing that his topic of conversation probably isn’t comforting in the slightest. “Uh, you should rest, though. I don’t wanna make you even sicker by keeping you up.”

Frank doesn’t actually feel tired at all, but he agrees with Gerard anyway. “You probably have to get back to your paintings, too. I’ll fuck off for now, okay? Expect me back at some point, though. I’m good at annoying the shit out of people.”

“Okay,” Gerard replies. “Just for the record,though, you don’t annoy me. Catch you later, Frank.”

“Sure,” Frank scoffs, then keeps his promise and shuts the fuck up. His stomach feels oddly warm, and he tries to shake off the feeling. Gerard was being friendly, he reminds himself, stubbornly forcing the soft feelings to the back of his mind. No butterflies. Now devoid of anything to do, he pulls up Twitter. Ray’s finally replied:

tor0: Yeah your phone number would be great. And rendezvous at the apt lobby maybe? It’s most accessible from the street. Hope things are good on your end.

It’s typical Ray behavior, asking after his situation while not updating Frank on his own. He sends Ray his phone number, along with another message:

frnklero: k i’ll let g know. things r ok, health is shit but nothing new. let mikey know g’s alive & using his newfound free time to paint horror movie posters. how’s downtown/yr new apocalypse life?

As he sends the message, Gerard’s paintbrushes become audible again, and Frank takes that as a sign to get up and plug in his fucking phone. It’s not like he’ll need it for the rest of his waking hours, anyway. Nobody’ll call him about an emergency, because the whole damn US is an emergency at this point.

 

Day 32-38

The two of them fall into an odd rhythm, Frank listening to Gerard’s stream-of-consciousness weirdness when they’re both awake and responding in kind. They talk about everything, from the punk shows Frank went to pre-disaster to Gerard’s tragic experience working at A.C. Moore while earning his art school degree. It’s nice to have a companion, and Frank nearly forgets how shitty everything is when he’s talking to Gerard. Everything about the apocalypse seems liminal and odd, but with Gerard it’s the good kind of liminal.

Day 39

Frank’s still keeping warped hours, and it’s getting to him. He usually loves staying up until three in the morning, playing guitar or watching movies or whatever, but recently he’s been feeling a sick nostalgia towards the boring routine of his life before the apocalypse. Everything is too freeform now, leaving him absolutely stranded in a sea of choices. There are no broad social or professional barriers to stop him from doing anything.

He’s pulling another all-nighter, his third one this week. Ray’s up, too, and they’re chatting over the world’s worst Skype connection. Frank’s honestly shocked that the internet’s held out for this long. Static takes up half of Ray’s face at all times, but it’s better than nothing. Ray looks healthy, at least- his hair is as curly as ever, and, despite the blatant exhaustion on his face, he seems to have had enough to eat. 

“So, yeah,” Ray says, running a hand through his ‘fro. “Mikey’s going a little crazy without Gerard here. They’ve always been close, and he’s anxious as fuck that Gee’s not doing well currently. And it’s not like I can do anything about it, at least nothing that’ll help him for longer than a few days.”

“Hasn’t he tried to call? Gerard’s phone still works.” Frank stretches his legs out on the couch, feels the corduroy texture rub against his socks.

“He’s called a few times, but talking to Gerard and being in the same room with him are two different things. As you’d probably know.” Ray chuckles slightly. “He’s a force of nature, that guy.”

Frank shrugs. “Actually, I wouldn’t know. We haven’t exactly progressed to a same-room friendship yet. It’s not like I have the strength to tear through a wall. Mostly, we just talk through the wall or on the phone.” He taps the Gerard Wall to solidify his point. Ray nods sagely.

“Apocalypse situation, I get that. We had to talk to Pete- Wentz, the guy who worked in the back of the record store- anyway, we had to talk to him through a walkie-talkie for a solid week because he got trapped behind a wall of rubble. Mikey was the one who figured out how to rescue him.”

“I figured as much. Mikey’s a smart dude.” Ray raises an eyebrow at this, and Frank hastily tries to cover up his social faux pas. “Not that you aren’t, of course. You’re smart.”

“Sure, sure. And you’re a smart-ass.” 

 

“Fair enough.” Frank studies the wall behind Ray’s head- it looks dusty, coated in eight thousand layers of grime and mold. “Hey, why has your store gone to shit?”

Ray gives him a long-suffering look. “This is the storage room, Frank. It’s always looked like this.”

“Oh, well.” Frank shrugs. “I never realized that before.”

The room does look like shit, from what Frank can see through the static. Boxes have fallen everywhere, and there’s old merchandice covering the floor. It looks incredibly dangerous.

A moaning noise cuts through the connection, and Ray rolls his eyes. “One sec, zombie issue.”

He drops the computer, and Franks watches him head towards the door behind him. At first, there’s nothing, but a sudden crash follows the moaning,

“Shit!” Ray yells suddenly as a zombie lunges through the door at him. There’s a huge scuffle, and the video cuts out.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr @ orcgf. don't dox me for the fact that i've written rpf please, this was written like two years ago. thanks for reading!


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